


Six Hours in New York

by bluesamutra



Series: March [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s06e10 Tithonus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29809014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesamutra/pseuds/bluesamutra
Summary: Fear has a smell, as love does
Relationships: Fox Mulder & Dana Scully, Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: March [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191176
Comments: 1
Kudos: 64





	Six Hours in New York

* * *

_"_ _Fear has a smell, as love does"_   
_\- Margaret Atwood_

The muted bustle of the ICU wafts around her unnoticed as she sits stiffly by the side of Dana's bed in an uncomfortable wingback chair the color of rotten peaches. It clashes badly with her cornflower-blue dress, and she feels out of place in the formal clothes she'd worn to tea at the Plaza. It's a ritual they follow every year when she visits her sister, had done it even when the girls were children and too young to appreciate fine bone china and imported pfeffernusse. Once a year they all dressed up and had lunch under the portrait of Eloise; only this year, the dainty sandwiches and pretty cakes had gone untouched.

To her right, a Siemens monitor dominates the room, electric hum reverberating in her ear, the rhythmic beep celebrating her daughter's survival with every heartbeat, and Margaret Scully thinks that she has spent too many hours like this; sitting by her daughter's bedside in uneasy repose.

A Navy wife for thirty-one years, she had long known the cold grip of fear that could arrive out of nowhere at the unexpected ring of a phone or knock on the door, and with grace and acceptance, she understood that one day her children's father, her soul mate, might not come home to her. But this life that Dana has chosen for herself, so fraught with danger, this she cannot understand.

She was never meant to sit by her daughter's bedside and pray to God that this will not be the day He takes her baby from her.

She clasps her daughter's left hand in both of hers, Dana's skin soft and cool under her touch. She's always had beautiful hands; graceful, strong, assured. Margaret looks at the creamy, smooth skin; the manicured nails, the fine bones of Dana's fingers, and she thinks about how many lives these hands have saved. And how many they have taken.

This is not the life she wanted for her daughter. Oh, of course when the girls were little, she imagined fairytale weddings, houses filled with children, but even before Dana was out of her teens she knew that there would be more to life for her youngest daughter. Bill had been overjoyed when Dana started medical school, and livid when she turned down a fellowship at Stanford in favor of the FBI. And though she herself had been surprised by the change in direction, Margaret had never questioned her daughter's right to choose her own path in life. Certainly, there are times when she wants to shake her daughter for her unflinching commitment to a career that will surely see her dead and buried one day. She wants to scream and shout and beg her to give it up. But, truthfully, she could no more ask Dana to turn her back on this job, this life she has chosen, than she could have asked Bill to give up the ocean. It was what they were meant to do.

"Please... I have to see her..." a familiar voice raised in panic and frustration interrupts her thoughts, and she stands slowly, knees popping, and releases Dana's hand. Stepping out into the corridor, the stark fluorescent lighting is almost blinding in comparison to the dimly lit room her daughter lies in.

"Fox," she says quietly and he spins round, black overcoat flapping heavily behind him. He takes two steps towards her and she can see his face is rigid with fear.

"Mrs. Scully," he says, and she has known this man long enough to recognize the shadow of desperation in his dull voice. His eyes are wide and bloodshot, and even from across the hall she can smell the fear on him; heady and bitter. The anxious tang of his sweat blots out the antiseptic pungency of the hospital as he steps closer to her. "The flight... I tried... I got here as soon as I could," he stammers her in a guilty rush.

"She's ok, Fox," she reassures and Fox deflates a little, his body shrinking in relief. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a man approach and she recognizes him as Dana's doctor. He eyes Fox cautiously and for a brief moment, she sees him as others do; dangerous and bellicose. And yet really, she knows he is neither of those things, at least not as far as Dana is concerned.

"Doctor Sittenfeld, this is Dana's partner," she explains, and the older man nods and shakes Fox's limp hand before launching into a detailed update on Dana's condition. The words swirl around Fox like snowflakes and he nods absently while trying to peer past her into the darkened hospital room.

"Can I see her?" Fox asks, and the Doctor's mouth hangs open mid-word, unused to being interrupted.

"Of course," she murmurs and he tilts his head gratefully, stepping past her into the room.

At the bedside, he reaches for Dana's hand, his gaze trailing over her waxy face. He sinks to his knees and rests his forehead against the rough peach blanket covering Dana's hip, his face pressed into their clasped hands. She can see his shoulder's heave as he rakes in deep, shuddering breaths, breathing in the smell of Dana's skin. She supposes if he smells like fear, then Dana smells like love. Because whatever these two are to one another, love is a part of it. She feels like she should turn away and give him some privacy, but she can't quite manage to drag her eyes off the scene before her.

"Mulder," Dana mumbles, eyes still closed, and her voice is scratchy from being intubated and languid after the anesthetic.

Fox looks up at her face, his eyes glassy, "I'm here, Scully," he says, pulling her hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss against the back of her wrist. He smooths the hair from her forehead, letting his fingers linger on the creased skin of her brow.

Dana's eyes blink open, struggling to focus through a haze of morphine. "I thought -"

"Shhhh. Rest now, you're going to be ok."

She jerks her head in sluggish impatience at his interruption. "I though... I'd never get to see you again," she slurs, and her eyes drift shut, like the effort of getting out this one sentence has exhausted her.

Over the repetitive hiss of oxygen, she can hear the crackle of Fox's throat as he swallows. Careful not to jostle Dana's wounded body, he pulls himself to his feet and leans over her, pressing a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

"You can't get rid of me that easily, Scully," he whispers against her dry lips, mouth brushing hers with every word.

Margaret blinks back tears, and turns away from the private scene before her; but not before she can see Dana's mouth curve under his in a soft smile.

She sinks onto one of the hard, plastic chairs lining the corridor and lets her head fall back against the chair-rail. Since she got here six hours ago, her shoulders have been around her ears and her jaw has been clenched with worry. But now that Fox is here, she allows her body to relax slightly and her muscles burn in relief.

She tries not to listen to the unforgiving chink in her subconscious; the one that says but for Fox Mulder, none of this would ever have happened. She tries not to think at all.

"Are you ok Mrs. Scully?"

When she opens her eyes, some time later, Fox is peering down at her. She pulls her head off the wall and nods. Encouraged, Fox sits down in the chair next to her and stretches his legs out in front of him.

"The nurse just gave her another shot of morphine. I think she'll be out for a while."

He really is tall, she thinks incongruously, looking at his polished shoes on the vile green linoleum floor.

"Why weren't you with her?" she asks, surprising herself with the question. And the accusation in her tone.

He ducks his head and tucks his feet under the chair, leaning forward on his elbows, and she has a sudden vision of what he must've been like as a teenager, all arms and legs and teen-angst. "Dana was assigned to this case alone. I... they didn't want me on it."

"It seems to be that's never stopped you before," she says and he blanches, and she can see him wondering just how much Dana has told her about him.

"No, Ma'am," he whispers.

She sighs and looks at the pattern of scuffs on the linoleum by the nurses' station. "I'm sorry, Fox. I have no right to take this out on you, I just..." she casts around looking for the right words. "I just can't bear seeing Dana like this again."

He reaches tentatively for her hand. "I understand."

His clammy hand with its bitten nails and long, graceful fingers, dwarfs hers, and she pictures those same fingers smoothing the crease of Dana's brow. She pictures the love in his face as he spoke to her, and Dana's soft smile as she listened to him.

She squeezes his fingers to reassure him. And herself too.

"I know you do."


End file.
